The sun had not yet quite set as he crossed the open space that lay between the woods proper and the outlying grove of fir-trees; its level shafts struck the ruddy trunks of these and ran along the lower branches, turning the very needles into fire; the aromatic scent gushed forth, strong and sweet. Yonder the downs were all ablaze in the same transitory glow; the distant hills were sapphire and amethyst, the nearer woods a very glory of autumn tints and sunset fires. Robert stood still as he emerged into the open; his heart was swelling to suffocation, his eyes smarting with unshed tears. They are children of nature, these burly Northmen, and he would have been fain to weep now, though he had not wept since that far-away day when, as a little lad, he had seen them lay his mother in the grave. A great loathing of the beauty and the radiance and the sweetness which had encompassed his dead dream, came upon him; in his actual physical oppression he thought with a sick longing of the pure tart air blowing over the dunes at home; the tall bleak dunes, all sober grey and green; the brown waves leaping in upon the tawny shore. “I reckon I’ll shift,” said Robert. And early on the following morning, when the yellowing leaves of Oakleigh Wood were catching the first rays of the sun, Robert Formby took to the road, with his face turned northwards. THE CARRIER’S TALE. “E-es, I d’ ’low I do see a-many queer things while I be a-goin’ o’ my rounds, year in, year out, every Tuesday an’ Friday so reg’lar as clockwork--only when Christmas Day do fall on a Friday, or Boxin’ Day, an’ then I do have to put it off. E-es, I do often say to Whitefoot when he an’ me be joggin’ along; ‘Whitefoot,’ I d’ say, ‘if you an’ me was to get a-talkin’ of all we’ve a-seen in our day, Lard! we could tell some funny tales.’ Whitefoot do seem to take jist so much notice as what I do do--he be the knowin’est mare in the country. There! ye midn’t notice as he be a-goin’ along a bit unwillin’ to-day, same as if he hadn’t a-got much heart in him; ’tis because he knows so well as me what day ’tis--Friday, d’ye see? He d’ know he’ll have to bring back a heavy load. Fridays we calls at Brewery for two or three cases o’ bottled beer--we do bring ’em full o’ Fridays up to Old’s, at Graychurch--right a-top o’ the hill--an’ we do fetch back empties o’ Tuesdays, an’ then ye should jist see Whitefoot a-steppin’ along.